


An Inspector is Called Upon

by justonemore11



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2018, Mystrade Holiday 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 21:36:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16840882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justonemore11/pseuds/justonemore11
Summary: Hoping for a bit of renewal after a trying year, Greg and Mycroft plan an idyllic Christmas in the English countryside.  This, of course, does not happen.





	An Inspector is Called Upon

Greg Lestrade was brimming with a sense of accomplishment. For him and for Mycroft, it had been a brutal year, full of long weeks, recalcitrant underlings, and superiors who had no clue what they wanted. (As Mycroft worked for the people of the United Kingdom, he felt this was a particularly apt characterization). Greg had decided they needed a break. After 30 years on the force, he announced his intent to take Christmas off. His stunned DSI signed the paperwork for a week’s leave, with the knowledge that Greg could by rights refuse to return until spring, if he so chose. 

Greg put it to Mycroft’s assistant that a week off for Mycroft was a week off for her as well, and she had arranged his diary accordingly. Mycroft had of course, been the biggest obstacle. In the end, Greg had threatened to grow a beard. Not a hint of manly stubble, or a sexy, neatly trimmed goatee, but a full blown, Father Christmas number that would render moot his choice of necktie and do any conspiracy theorist proud. Mycroft had realized that the nation could wait for a week.

Mycroft’s only condition was that they would need to be within an hour of Sandringham, just in case. Thus, they found themselves headed for the village of Holt in Norfolk, generally considered by all the travel magazines to be a picturesque location for the holidays. Greg had rented a small house, close enough to walk into town, but far enough away for privacy. There was, at the bottom of the drive, a small caretaker’s house for Fred and Mustapha, the security detail. 

They arrived in good time at 2:00 in the afternoon on Christmas Eve. Getting out of greater London had been tricky, but once they had done that, traffic had subsided, and the rest of the drive was uneventful.

Greg surveyed their temporary home. Delivery from Waitrose on the bench in the kitchen - check. Case of wine from Ye Olde Local Shoppe - check. Fred and Mustapha retired to the edge of the drive for a couple of days of pinochle and Christmas telly - check.

Greg carried their suitcases up to the master bedroom. There, as advertised, in all its glory, was the king sized bed, but Greg’s attention was drawn further afield to the cottage’s true selling point: a working, renovated gas fireplace.

Impulsively, Greg ripped the duvet off the bed and threw it down in front of the hearth. He thought about throwing Mycroft down in front of the hearth, but remembered that neither of them was getting any younger, and he settled for unbuttoning every button he could reach, running his hands under Mycroft’s shirt and waistcoat, and kissing him until he crumpled onto the duvet of his own volition.

An hour later, dozing curled together under the spare blanket after a cursory cleanup in the surprisingly luxurious bathroom, Greg felt a further sense of accomplishment. He hadn’t seen Mycroft this relaxed in months. With his head on Greg’s chest and his eyes closed, he looked ten years younger. This was going to be a fantastic holiday. Greg was looking forward to the days ahead of walks in the woods, more sex, and a general opportunity to reconnect. It was fine by Greg if the world, for now, was just the two of them.

Which made it all the more jarring when the doorbell rang.

Assuming that Fred or Mustapha was doing a security check, Greg pulled on a pair of pants and a dressing gown and headed downstairs. The bell rang again. Greg’s heart sank at what he heard next.

“Come along, Mycroft, we know you are in there. The local bakery said they had sent an extra order of mince pies to this address.”

This wasn’t necessarily a disaster. Mycroft was, after all a genius. Surely, he could come up with a goose chase for his brother, a goose chase approximately one week in length, in a place cellphones didn’t work. 

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, we are about to ask the man a favor. Be civil.”

“Daddy, will Father Christmas be able to find us here?” 

A child friendly goose chase, then. Greg sighed and opened the door.

Sherlock and John stood on the doorstep with wee Rosie. They were surrounded by an array of cases. The one next to Sherlock was smoking slightly. Greg could feel the panic rising.

“Sorry to barge in, Greg,” said John, looking very apologetic. “You know Mrs. Hudson. When the boiler got a bit fussy, she would call in a friend of a friend.”

“I knew he was unlicensed and uninsured,” said Sherlock. “I wasn’t focused, you know, or else I would have realized that he was also incompetent.”

“Boiler’s out, plus all the electrics in the flat. A real repair shop says they can have someone out on Boxing Day,” said John.

Greg hesitated.

“Daddy, I need to go to the toilet.”

“Oh, right, then.” John slid past Greg and into the house, holding Rosie by the hand. It was only later that Greg realized that Sherlock had probably been plying her with juice boxes for the last hour of their drive as a calculated last resort.

“Under the stairs, sweetie,” said Greg, sighing. He turned to find Mycroft right behind him. He would never get used to that.

“Brother mine, how on Earth did you find us?”

“Gavin has been poring over popular offerings such as ‘Yahoo News’ during our last three crime scenes. I knew, of course, that Mycroft would insist on being an hour from Sandringham, so Holt was the only village on the last three Yahoo lists of “Most Picturesque English Villages” that met that criterion. From there, it was just a matter of asking in at the local bakery…”

“Oi, Sherlock,” interjected Greg.

“Relax, Grantham, I merely assumed you would order something for him.” 

Fred, at this point, discreetly arrived in full bomb squad gear to move the smoking suitcase to a shed, obliging Sherlock to chase him down the drive. Greg and Mycroft took this opportunity to repair to the kitchen.

“I can have a car here in an hour,” said Mycroft.

“I don’t think we can have Rosie opening her presents in a Doubletree Inn, assuming they can even get in anywhere. It’s Christmas Eve. Besides, they’ll be gone by Boxing Day.”

“I suppose you are right,” sighed Mycroft. They returned to the front hallway. Mycroft looked down, apparently in response to a slight tugging on the hem of his dressing gown. 

“Uncle Mycroft,”

“Yes, Rosamond?”

“Will Father Christmas be able to find us here?”

“Why yes, of course. You remember the last time we had tea, Uncle Mycroft spoke of the geosynchronous orbiting satellite network?” She nodded, Greg recalled that he had indeed mentioned it, while portioning out the HobNobs. “Now, Father Christmas has full access to the network.”

“He does?”

“Yes, of course. How else would he keep track of who has been naughty, and who has been nice?” 

“Sharing intelligence with Father Christmas. Has MI-5 gone sentimental, Mycroft?” asked John, with a grin.

“Who said that WE are sharing with HIM?” said Mycroft imperiously.

“John, why don’t you take Rosie out to the little meadow behind the house? The estate agent says you sometimes see deer, even this late in the season.”

Rosie was enthusiastic, so they trotted outside into the crisp winter air. Mycroft and Greg slipped back to the kitchen to plan. 

“We shall need to think about sleeping arrangements,” said Mycroft.

“I’m not sure how we are going to feed everyone. You can’t give a pre-schooler oysters and champagne.”

“Er, you can’t?” said Mycroft. “I mean, obviously not the champagne. But oysters are very high in iron.”

Greg was spared the necessity of giving Mycroft part 734 of his lecture on “How Normal People Live”, as the doorbell rang again. Thinking it was Sherlock, Greg and Mycroft went to the entryway, and Greg opened the door. Mrs. Holmes stalked through haughtily.

“Mycroft, I have left your father.”

“Of course you have,” Mycroft moaned. “Because Christmas Eve is a perfectly appropriate time to end a marriage of some 50 years’ standing, and deposit oneself on the doorstep of one’s eldest son and his spouse, who are enjoying the first real holiday since their honeymoon.”

Greg sighed and leaned out onto the porch to get Mrs. Holmes’ bag. He was grateful for the example set by his father, who generally had regarded mothers-in-law as a duty to be borne, like VAT and root canal.

“Why have you left him?” asked Mycroft. Mrs. Holmes turned to Greg.

“Lavinia Cooper has asked him to partner with her in the Texas Two-Step. She has left Thurston. I found an email on Rutland’s computer from her begging Rutland to come out to the ranch outside Houston.”

“The tart!” exclaimed Greg. Mrs. Holmes sighed. 

“Rutland had replied saying he’d think about it.”

Greg actually felt himself on familiar territory. Any DI who had served at least a year had had to act as a marriage counselor on any number of occasions. Septuagenarians were actually the easiest. They were predisposed to work things out, and inertia was a pretty powerful force for them.

“He’ll come round. You know what men are like,” he said. 

“I sincerely hope so. I shall freshen up before dinner, something you both might think about doing. The affairs of the nation must be slow indeed, if you have time to lounge about in dressing gowns all day.”

“Under the stairs, there,” said Greg.

“And who does she suppose is cooking dinner?” Mycroft muttered, as they headed upstairs. “And who is Lavinia Cooper?”

“Aluminium heiress. She and her husband, Thurston, are your parents’ chief rivals in the Mature Division of the country line dancing circuit. She went on about them all through Act V of our last go at Les Miz, plus the whole of the intermission of ‘Half a Sixpence’. Honestly, Mycroft, if you don’t stop deleting your conversations with them, I’m going to end up with all of paperwork when they go into assisted living.”

Mycroft looked abashed, with just a hint of self-satisfaction. Greg had to admit, one of the sexy things about Mycroft was his ability to play the long game. Greg also caught a few longing looks from his husband, as they dressed, but he knew this wouldn’t go anywhere. The proximity of his in-laws was proving a very effective libido killer. He and Mycroft trotted downstairs again to find Sherlock reappearing at the door. He didn’t have his bag, but he bore a distinct odor of burned wool. 

“Your mother is here,” said Greg.

“Well, if the two of you fail to observe the three county buffer zone, you can hardly expect anything different.”

Mycroft looked abashed yet again.

“He is right. My failure to plan has been a plan to fail.”

At this point, Mrs. Holmes emerged, and, upon spying Sherlock went to kiss him, which he grudgingly allowed. Greg cleared this throat.

“Er, how did you find us, Merope?”

“That new assistant of Mycroft’s. He was quite a bit more respectful than Mycroft’s usual girl, but rather nervous.”

“There will be plenty of time for him to relax in his new post in Nuuk, Greenland,” muttered Mycroft.

“Anyway, when he said you were in Norfolk, I thought ‘well it’s only two counties away. So I might as well join.’” Mycroft and Sherlock looked at each other and shrugged. “Sherlock, I am glad to find you here as well, although I wish you two would tell me when you are planning to get together. I have left your father, you know.”

“That was inevitable, of course. As is your reconciliation. If you recall, I predicted it.”

“When?”

“It was in his Year 6 journal, Mummy. An Essay called ‘Meditation on Marriage Among the County Set.’ The title was not your best work, you know,” said Mycroft, distractedly.

“If you can’t be derivative at age 10, when can you be?”

Mrs. Holmes was mollified by the news that her marriage would return to a normal state in good time, so she stationed herself on the sofa with a magazine. 

Greg returned yet again to the kitchen. He looked around at their supply of groceries. There was simply no chance of re-provisioning within the next 36 hours, so he would have to make do. They had enough food per se, but he would have to cobble together a lot of meals for two into a meal for six. Plus, it was Christmas dinner, and they had a toddler and a senior citizen. He couldn’t remember what new diet the senior Holmes were doing these days. Was it paleo? South Beach? Maybe if Sherlock and John would go for the curried lamb, he and Mycroft could have the lobster bisque and…

At this point, Greg’s train of thought was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Resigned, he went to answer it. He couldn’t see the visitor’s face exactly, as it was obscured by at least three cake tins she was holding, but he recognized the sensible shoes, the support stockings, and the mint green paisley pattern of her second best dress, as garments belonging to his mother. She marched in.

“Happy Christmas, love. Kitchen this way?” 

She trotted off, followed by his sister, Emily, carrying what appeared to be an entire turkey.

“Happy Christmas, Greg,” she said stopping to kiss his cheek as she followed his mother. She was followed by his oldest nephew, Tom, carrying a 10 liter pot. 

“Happy Christmas, Uncle Greg.” He trooped into the kitchen. He was followed by his younger brother, Jamie, carrying four bags of prawn crisps and a tray covered with reindeer wearing tuxedoes. 

“Happy Christmas, Uncle Greg.”

Greg followed them in. 

“Mum, how did you…why are you…” 

“Phyllis, to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” Mycroft had appeared silently at Greg’s elbow again. Greg’s mother reached up to kiss her son-in-law.

“Happy Christmas, Mycroft. We’ve had a bit of a hiccup in the plumbing at Emily’s. The outside intake pipe froze over. Normally, Emily’s Gordon would fix it himself, but he’s gone to Sheffield.”

“He’s visiting his mother. She’s poorly.” This couplet would be the longest speech Emily made over the next two days, and the note of triumph in her voice at having dodged Christmas with an ailing mother-in-law was unmistakable.

“Lucky girl,” thought Greg.

“How marvelous,” said Mycroft, eyeing the cake tins surreptitiously. “How – ah – however did you find us?”

“That new holiday assistant of yours. He’s ever so nice, but a bit nervy. I was surprised. I thought MI-5 employees were meant to have nerves of steel.”

Greg could sympathize with the lad. He’d have been a bit nervy too, if he’d had to face both his and Mycroft’s mothers on the same day. Greg’s mother began organizing. 

“Do you know, Emily, I think we’ll have the shepherd’s pie tonight, and the turkey tomorrow. Jamie, love, can you start putting the crisps on the tray there. Tom, let’s see what sort of dining area we’ve got, while your mum sorts the turkey.”

Greg slunk out of the kitchen, resigning himself, with relief, to handing over the reins for dinner. You didn’t call in Dad’s Army, when you had Montgomery at the ready. His mother and Tom followed him into the lounge.

“Oh, goodness, how lovely to see everyone,” said Mrs. Lestrade. Sherlock leapt to his feet. He regarded Mrs. Lestrade coolly. 

“From the pattern of creases in your garment, at least three tins. Brandy snaps, a Yule log (kudos for ambition), and, yes, ginger nuts.” He swept into the kitchen.

“Sherlock, no more than two before dinner,” called Mrs. Lestrade after him. “Rosie, love, you may need to go into the kitchen and keep an eye on him. Merope, it’s so nice to see you. Is Rutland about?”

“I have left Rutland, that philanderer.”

With the unerring social instinct that had seen Phyllis Lestrade appointed to the St. Dunstan’s of Ilford Parish Council for ten years running, she said,

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

That evening, Greg reflected with satisfaction that this extended family Christmas was going far better than he would ever have expected. After a tasty meal prepared by his mum, they had repaired to the lounge. His mother was in the process of convincing Mycroft to have a second piece of cake. Emily was texting her husband, Gordon. John was in the corner with Greg’s nephew, Tom, who was thinking about going into medicine, quietly discussing his early days at Guy’s. Sherlock was in the back garden doing something with a small catapult and a laser pointer. Greg’s younger nephew, Jamie, a musical theater enthusiast with a lovely voice, was regaling Mrs. Holmes with a re-enactment of “Bring Him Home,” from Les Miz, while toting about Rosie, who had obligingly agreed to act as Marius. Greg himself was nursing a second cup of tea and a brandy snap in front of the fire. All in all, a good Christmas Eve.

He was re-examining this sense of satisfaction a number of hours later. The house had seemed spacious enough while everyone was awake, but trying to find sleeping quarters for everyone had proven challenging. Chivalry and deference to age had generally prevailed. After a slightly panicked remaking of the bed with fresh sheets, the master bedroom had been turned over to Mrs. Lestrade and Emily, although not without an inner sigh from Greg. Rosie was dossed down on their floor in a Disney Princess sleeping bag. Mrs. Holmes was lodged alone in the smaller guest bedroom, which, most people thought privately to themselves, might be for the best. 

This left the menfolk to shift for themselves downstairs. Sherlock and John had claimed the convertible sofa, and were happily ensconced for the night. Tom and Jamie were wrapped in Scout issue sleeping bags and had both fallen asleep in the middle of both their video game and the hallway. 

Mycroft and Greg, like true hosts, were in an unenviable location under the dining table. Greg had popped down to the caretaker’s cottage, where Fred had been engaged in a massive fry-up involving two kinds of tomatoes, leaving Mustapha to assist him in a search that had yielded the two rather musty air beds on which he and Mycroft now slept. Greg had considered that it had been sporting of Mustapha to help, while Mycroft regarded it to be the least his security detail could do, in light of their failure to arrest his family on sight as they arrived.

The fact that they had commandeered the master bedroom duvet, with its happy memories, was small recompense for having to listen to John’s snoring.

“Seven years of training at Guy’s, a substantial period of decorated war service, followed by years with the NHS, and the man can’t diagnose his own deviated septum,” fretted Mycroft. 

“To be fair, you never hear yourself snoring,” said Greg

“I do not snore.”

“I mean in general.”

Mycroft sighed. 

“Look, love, I know it isn’t the Christmas I promised you. I’m hoping they’ll all be gone by Boxing Day.” 

“My mother has made no such promise.”

“Too right.” Greg was thoughtful. Then, the lingering smell of Mycroft’s cedar and spice cologne caught his attention, as did the open buttons on Mycroft’s pajamas. He leaned over and kissed Mycroft’s chest. Sliding his hands under Mycroft’s shoulders, he began kissing his husband’s neck, slowly.

“Greg, my brother and your nephews are…”

“In the next room, with no clear sight line.”

“And if they should need to use the facilities in the night, they will need to walk right past us.”

Greg sighed. He had a fleeting bit of nostalgia for the early days of dating. He and Mycroft would have been tucked up in his broom closet of a flat in inner London. Their families could have taken Mycroft’s old place. Maybe next year they needed to stay at home. Or leave for Tenerife. The “English Country Christmas” middle of the road option was clearly not to be repeated. Their families were, ironically, simply too good at detection. He rolled off of Mycroft.

“It’s more than likely that we will need a holiday from this holiday.” Greg settled for wrapping his arms around Mycroft and resting a head on his shoulder. “But you know, love. It’s all worth it to be here with you. Not to be stuck on some stakeout, or talking to you halfway round the world,” Greg muttered sleepily. Mycroft responded by embracing Greg even more tightly, and that is how they remained until early the next morning. 

Greg noted ruefully that it was really only just technically morning when a tiny pair of fingers pried open one of his eyelids.

“Uncle Greg, did Father Christmas come?” Rosie had apparently padded downstairs. Greg checked his phone. It was 5:30 am. It was just their luck that the estate agent had left a tiny plastic Christmas tree in the dining area, i.e., where Greg and Mycroft were sleeping, and that is where everyone had placed their Christmas gifts. Greg glanced over. Fortunately, John was a few Christmases into parenting, so he knew the drill, and had left things set up under the Tesco treelet. Greg also did not fail to register that John was slumbering peacefully

“Looks like he did, sweetheart. Why don’t you go get Daddy?”

Rosie bounced into the lounge and jumped on John and Sherlock’s bed. John grunted and rolled over. Sherlock sat bolt upright and said, in an accusatory manner,

“Twelve strands of steel cable per square centimeter!” He looked around, startled. 

“Daddy! Sherlock! Father Christmas came.”

“Right,of course. Let’s, ah, see what he has brought.” Shelock lumbered after the scampering child.

“I’ve been very good.”

“Of course you have, sweetheart,” said Greg. 

“Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Rosamond’s behavior will always be quite perfect compared to OTHERS in her household.” Mycroft had appeared at Greg’s elbow, having emerged from the downstairs toilet, immaculately dressed in a three piece suit with a red and green pocket square.

“You have got to stop doing that,” said Greg, putting his phone back in his dressing gown pocket.

Gradually, the house awoke. Presents were opened. Greg was thrilled with his Arsenal jersey signed by Thierry Henry. Mycroft was helping Tom with his sixth form applications (and tuition), so in gratitude, Tom had presented Mycroft with the handsome tome, “Umbrellas: A 20th Century Retrospective.” Greg and Mycroft in turn had given Tom a 1/64 scale model of the human anatomy, with removable internal organs, commonly used by surgery students. Greg noted later that his sister had primly draped a tissue over its midsection.

Greg watched with interest as John and Rosie presented Sherlock with a banker’s box with a bow on top. He opened it to reveal a pile of broken crockery. He smiled broadly.

“Excellent, Watsons,” he said. Still in his dressing gown, he took the box into the back garden and began hurling the pieces at the ground, and measuring the radius of the pattern of shards. 

At noon, the turkey was in the oven, browning nicely. Tom was setting the table, and Greg was searching the cupboards for more candlestick holders at his mother’s behest. Sherlock and Mycroft were behind the caretaker’s cottage, hiding from their mother, their presence only traceable by occasional puffs of smoke.

There was another knock on the door. Greg strode to answer it. It was Mr. Holmes.

“Er, Greg. I got your text. Is – is Merope here?”

“Of course. Come in.”

“I swear I didn’t – “ 

“Course not, but the truth really doesn’t matter, does it? Now you know what you have to do here. ‘I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking; You’re worth ten of her’ etc.”

“I understand, Greg. It’s not my first rodeo, you know.”

Greg reflected ruefully that, given his mother-in-law’s taste for the dramatic, it probably wasn’t. He let Mr. Holmes precede him into the lounge. Mrs. Holmes, seated on the sofa poring over the December issue of Country Life, looked up. 

“So.” She said, not moving. Mr. Holmes swept in.

“Merope, I’ve been a fool. I never intended to dance with Lavinia, but I didn’t think I could turn her down outright, poor thing. She’s in a bad way over Thurston. I should have told you everything.” He sat on the sofa heavily, with a self-effacing downcast look. He did, however, sneak a few side glances over at his wife, 

Not for the first time, Greg reflected that his father-in-law might have made a decent career for himself in the West End. 

“I shall return home with you, but I have conditions. We shall attempt new choreography for our Texas Two-step. We must be triumphant over Lavinia and whomever her new partner might be.”

“Of course, my dear. Whatever you wish.” Mrs. Holmes rose from the sofa. Mycroft and Sherlock returned indoors. 

“Boys, I am returning to your father.”

“So we see,” said Mycroft, actually smiling, no doubt with the hope that a bedroom might now be free for his use.

“As I predicted, brother.” Sherlock turned slightly and said sotto voce to his father. “My original prediction had you here by 11 am.”

“Traffic was a complete clusterfuck,” his father whispered back. 

“I could hardly have anticipated that in Year 6,” Sherlock muttered to himself. 

Mrs. Lestrade emerged from the kitchen. 

“The turkey is just about ready. Oh, Rutland, lovely to see you. Another for lunch?” 

They all ate copious amounts of food. Later, they sat down to watch the Queen’s speech.

“You write it this year?” whispered Greg to Mycroft.

“No, no. I just approved an early draft.”

After this, the rest of the family began arguing over the choice of Special Christmas Episodes. Generational lines were drawn. Coronation Street was pitted against David Walliams. Call the Midwife emerged as a compromise candidate. Greg checked his phone obsessively. Mycroft seemed to be doing the same, punctuated by glances out the window.

Finally, a car swept up the drive. A young man got out, tripped over his feet, got up, and rang the doorbell. Tom went to answer it. It was Mycroft’s temporary assistant.

“Ah, Piers,” said Mycroft, striding over. “Is something the matter?” he said, pointedly fixing his assistant with an icy stare.

“Er, yes.” Piers raised his voice loudly, but that only seemed to amplify his nervousness. “Mr. Holmes, you are back on urgent business – oh, damn, no I mean to say you are required back – required back on urgent business. That’s it. For Her Majesty. Yes.”

Greg saw Mycroft rolling his eyes. Greg knew he preferred assistants who could effectively deceive 90 percent of the people who entered their office. Piers didn’t seem to fit the bill.

“Ah, what a shame,” said Mycroft, picking up his bag, already conveniently packed and situated by the door. “Happy Christmas all, the affairs of state call.” 

“Oh, that is too bad,” said Mrs. Lestrade, entering the entryway from the lounge. “On Christmas, too. Don’t these politicians have families?”

“That would require them to have hearts, Phyllis,” he said kissing her on the cheek. “We shall see you at New Year’s at ours, then, of course.” Mycroft seized the handle of the door to go, but was faced with another visitor. Sally Donovan peered in through the door.

“Sorry to intrude, Boss. But we have a huge case. Higher-ups say you’re the only one who can handle it.”

“Right. Well, can’t be helped,” said Greg, kissing his mother on the cheek. He dashed to the downstairs loo, where he had had had the grace to stash his coincidentally already-packed case out of sight. “We’ll be off then.” 

The rest of the party glanced up, and then returned to watching Strictly Come Dancing.

Mycroft got into the car with Piers, who was nudged out of the driver’s seat, and Fred and Mustapha’s discreet sedan followed them down the drive.

Greg followed Sally down the drive to where a panda was waiting. They both got in. 

“Thanks, Sal. I owe you one, but you didn’t have to come yourself. I didn’t mean to interrupt your Christmas.”

“We. Are. Not. Going. Back. There,” said a voice from the back seat. Greg turned to see a young woman bearing a remarkable resemblance to Sally, wearing a Burberry coat, and tapping on a cellphone.

“Too right, Sheila,” said Donovan. “Boss, this is my cousin, Sheila.” Sheila and Lestrade shook hands over the partition. “At my Auntie Bev’s house, they sat the unmarried young women at the kids’ table. I am one of 1000 people in the whole of the UK licensed to use an automatic weapon with laser sighting, and Sheila’s just made partner at her firm in the City!”

“I moved six billion pounds in assets last year, but now I find myself moving six half-eaten mints off my bread plate and being challenged on my knowledge of the lyrics to ‘Frozen’. Not. On.” said Sheila firmly. 

When they were out of sight of the house, the panda, and both sedans pulled over. Greg and Piers both got out of their respective vehicles.

“Er, Mr. Holmes,” said Piers. “I want to thank you for reconsidering that transfer. I was just… they both were so… and that one lady offered me a brandy snap…”

It’s alright, lad,” said Greg. “He can’t say no to them, either.”

Piers went over to the panda and got in, smiling nervously at Sheila and Sally.

“Well, maybe someone would get some action for Christmas,” thought Greg, getting into the sedan next to Mycroft. He turned to his husband. ”Home?”

“Home.”

Later that night, tucked up in their own bed, blissfully alone, Greg was rubbing Mycroft’s back. 

“Just two centimeters further down. Oh, God, Greg, yes. One more night on that air bed would have ended me, something the whole of the Russian Security Service has not been able to do.”

“I think we would have had a repeat performance of last night’s arrangements, since your parents seemed to show no signs of leaving.”

“Thank God, we are alone at last.” He turned over and looked at Greg. Greg noted Mycroft was wearing that same cologne, and this time was only in the trousers to his pajamas. Sliding his hands behind Mycroft’s back, Greg began kissing his husband’s neck. As they pressed against each other, Greg reflected that this might be a decent Christmas after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Those of you who have read my other stories will recognize Greg's family, but you don't need to have read those to understand this story. You need only have relatives.
> 
> In naming the senior Holmeses, I have stuck to the convention of Greek names for the women and something vaguely Saxon sounding for the men.


End file.
